Shards of Glass
by some blue december
Summary: You never imagined that one ordinary, everyday sound could spark such complicated thoughts.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Outsiders_.

**A/N:** This does, in a very small way, tie into chapter 38 of _Born to Run_. It's not essential to have read _Born to Run_ to read this, but if you have read it then you might remember how this ties in.

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The smashing bottle sends a chill down your spine. You suck in a breath, hands shoved in your back pockets, and stay stock-still - watching. You watch, because it's all you can do. Your feet are glued to the floor of the grocery store and your legs are dead-weights. You want to help. You want to go out there and beat the shit out of the guys surrounding Pony, but you can't. You will if it comes to it - your fingers are resting on your old blade, and you know you _will_ - but the shattering sound makes you pause.

It makes you pause, it makes you think, and it makes you a little sick.

Your old man used to throw empty beer bottles at least once a week. He'd throw them into the trash, miss, and curse as they smashed on the kitchen floor. He'd stumble around the living room in anger, throwing the empties as he searched for the fulls he didn't have. He'd even sit back in his chair, laughing as your ma ducked the flying bottle that would shatter on the wall just above her head.

It was a good day for everyone when he up and left - no goodbye, no note, not a fucking thing. You don't know if he ran out because he couldn't take having two kids, if he didn't want to be with your ma anymore, or if he was just a piece of shit without a good bone in his body. You don't care any more. You didn't much care then, either.

If anything, it was a relief when he left, and you're glad to be rid of him. He was useless. Probably still is. You pity whoever has to put up with him now. Life is better without him around - you know this from experience, and you hope like hell he never bothers making another appearance in your life.

You're not anything like him, but you've thrown your fair share of bottles, too. Like the first time Steve's old man kicked him out. His dad was an asshole, and Steve was angry. Furious, even. You think he might've been trying to cover up a bit of hurt, but storming around the kitchen, eyeing up things to punch wasn't going to do him any good. You knew that, but he didn't. Hell, even now you're not sure Steve realises that hitting inanimate objects doesn't do anyone any good.

But you knew telling him that wasn't going to do _you_ any good. Neither was talking to him - trying to get him to calm down. So you didn't. Instead, you picked up an empty beer bottle from the party you'd thrown a few nights before, and flipped it in the air. It spun its way to the floor, landing with a crash, glass flying around the bottom of your jeans. Steve looked at you, not getting it. You grin, pick up another bottle, and hand it to him.

"Throw it. It'll help."

He threw it. He threw the dozen or so bottles that were littering your kitchen table. It helped.

It always helps. Maybe that's one thing you inherited from your old man. You don't look like him, you don't talk like him, and you sure as shit don't act like him. It's once in a blue moon that you get truly angry, but you _do_ get angry. You're not perfect. Everyone expects you to laugh and joke and be fucking merry, but you get pissed off, too.

You get pissed off and start fights. You get pissed off and you say mean things to your girl. You get pissed off and you smash half-empty bottles of Jack on the roof of your car. That wasn't even a waste of alcohol; that was a damn good release of anger.

And all Kathy's fault. She never should've dated Danny Harris. Everyone's life would've been much better if she hadn't. Well, yours would have. But it wasn't the dating that was the problem, it was the screwing.

Or, maybe, you just should've kept your big mouth shut and never asked.

"Did you sleep with him?" You couldn't help but ask; the question had been burning your throat for weeks.

Her eyes went wide, and you saw something in them you'd never seen before: guilt. And that was your answer. If she felt guilty then she'd done it, and the ache in your chest that was worse than anything you'd felt in your life wasn't for nothing.

She'd tried to explain, but you weren't interested. You ignored the voice in your head calling you a hypocrite, and whirled on her.

"Christ, Kathy. You went out with him for what? A week? Two dates? Didn't even bother to make him wait like you made me, huh?"

She slapped you pretty hard for that. And then she cried, and you felt like the world's biggest fuck-up.

"You're an asshole," she muttered. "But if you really want to know, I slept with him on the first date."

Throwing the bottle of Jack at your car had just seemed right. And it had felt fucking great.

You watch Pony climb down from Steve's car, sucking in a breath at the words that damn kid was throwing out. Didn't he know the kind of trouble he could - more than likely _would_ - get himself into? Trouble was his shadow, and he needed to be more careful.

He's holding the bottle perfectly - ready to inflict any kind of harm he needs to - and you feel like gagging. You did this to him, you're sure of it. Never before would he have smashed a bottle with the intention of using it as a weapon, but now … it's all your damn fault.

You smashed the bottle that night, you gave it to the kid as though he might actually use it, and you left him and Johnny alone. You flirted with that cute, dark-haired broad, you convinced those girls to walk home with a bunch of greasers, and you started the fight with Bob Sheldon and his buddy. You started it all, and that's why Pony's such a fucking mess these days.

The idiots with the car take off, and you let out a breath. Steve - who you never once realised was next to you - seems to relax and head back into the grocery store, but you head out to Pony. You're worried, because he shouldn't be pulling shit like this - he shouldn't be pulling the kind of shit Dally would pull. Sure, the best defence is a good offence, but Pony's not like Dally. He's different - special even - and he needs to know it.

Your words go unnoticed, and you frown.

"What in the world are you doing?"

He looks at you, answering as though speaking to a second grader. "Picking up the glass."

You're more relieved than you thought possible.

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**A/N:** Thanks to RileysMomma for beta-reading. Reviews are appreciated.


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